A slash of lighting cuts across the night sky and illuminates a thick smokey fog in your vision.

This was not merely a tempest—it was a malevolent entity, its arrival heralded by a thume of power, like a deep belly laugh from some forgotten god. The sea, a treacherous beast awakened, thrashing against a large fleet of Zygaxian ships with dark, roiling waves, each one a promise of death. Within this chaos, the ships, proud creations of oak and iron, were but mere playthings at the mercy of an unleashed fury.

​Thunder, a relentless drumbeat in the heart of the storm, set a cadence for tragedy. Lightning, now the executioner's blade, sought its victims with a predator's precision. Amidst the fleet a ship from Emol was singled out. Its sails broke from their ties and began to billow like the lungs of some great animal trapped in the storm's eye. With a crack that rent the air asunder, lightning struck, its touch divine and destructive. The center mast exploded into splinters, sending shards into the heavens like a thousand desperate prayers. The waves, sensing weakness, rose like giants to deliver the coup de grâce. With a violence, they crashed upon the Emol vessel, crushing it beneath their weight. The ship was consumed by the hungry sea, dragged down into the depths. No magic shielded them, no wards of power; they were alone, and the sea showed no mercy.
​
The lightning began to strike at other ships in the fleet, but these were better protected. Lances of counter-magic shields erupted from the largest vessel, an elvish windjammer built of unearthly darkwood trees. From a smaller pirate's galleon, a mad looking wizard raised a hand to fire lightning back at the storm while yelling incoherently. A third ship was wrapped in shadows as it dived between crashing waves that aimed to smash it to pieces. When it broke the surface, the mage flashed and vanished only to reappear on another ship to do the same for them.

Then a tidal wall began to rise. 

And kept rising.

In this moment, when all seemed lost to the storm's appetite, an elf woman stood in defiance on a small sail boat that could be operated by a single person, barely percievable when compared to the others.

Her deep connection to the water wellspring of New Zygaxia, a bond deeper than the deepest trench, became the fulcrum of their survival. With a focus that turned her vision inward, she reached out to the wellspring, channeling its ancient, boundless magic into the bioluminescent algae that adorned her ship. The algae, stirred by Ceilan's will, awoke to a brilliance unseen. It glowed with the intensity of a captured star, transforming her vessel into a beacon amidst the tempest's fog. This light, pure and unwavering, cut through the darkness, a surprise so profound it felt like the first dawn to all onlookers.

Then, with a gesture both desperate and inspired, the Elf woman guided the glowing algae to coalesce around the fleet, forming a single raft. This raft, enveloped in light, became a sanctuary, a testament to the power of the water wellspring and the indomitable spirit of it's guardian. As the power of the storm surged, so did her own with it. The tidal wave hit it's crescendo and crashed onto the raft, seeming to stop in midair. It peeled around the raft and dispersed outwards away from the fleet. 

The remaining ships, drawn to this sudden, surprising beacon, rallied. The light, a single point of defiance in the night's terror, carried them through to safety.

But the greater storm that these heroes faced had only played it's opening hand. ~

Dr. Theodore Myriam Corinthia Sylvaine Abeau Abilla-DeVue awoke to the muffled sounds of a voice from the next room.

 She reached over and grabbed the vacant sheets next to her, groggily mumbling “Eloí..?” The darkness in the room failed to indicate to her whether it was late or early, but at any rate her husband had been in bed when she went to bed and now he was not, and she could hear what the faint cadence and intermittent pauses told her was one half of a conversation.  ‘Well, best make sure he’s okay.’ she thought as she pulled on the house robe she had hung on her bedpost and transferred herself into her chair. The air was cold as she wheeled into the drawing room, and Eloí was seated in the alcove with the window open, still in his nightgown and cap. He turned, startled, at the sound of her wheelchair, and looked around like he had just woken up. It was still dark outside, and not much brighter inside, but Theodore thought she could see something outside the window. Movement—like the edge of a cloak, or perhaps more likely just a shadow—flitted past just as Eloí seemed to finally notice the draft from the open window and reached out to draw it shut.

“Eloí, who were you talking to?”

He still seemed confused, like he hadn’t quite fully awoken.
​
“I am... not quite sure. I think I was feeding the birds…” Eloí trailed off, looking out into the dark. “...or was it just a dream?”~

Several old dim lights begin to flicker to life and you find yourself in an old bunker somewhere deep underground.

The walls to either side are lined with ancient and partially ramshackled together servers, control panels and several monitors. Each whirring to life as several heavily robed beings work on each console. A singular large master console was in between all the others and had a window looking out to a secondary room. A singular person was at the console who oozed authority and command to the others in the room. Rapid movement as inputs and dials were adjusted as the entire room shuttered and shook as a beam of light slowly appeared and expanded in the room the control room looked out to and a large cylindrical object was revealed in some type of silo. 

“Targeting systems are operating at standard deviancy.”

“Fuel supply is being transferred to the propulsion system.” Replies one of the technicians working on a counsel. Looking into the Silo, crewed teams run pump lines to the object. The sounds of precious fuel loading into the tanks above large thrusters. 

“Warhead is being brought up to be installed.” Another one of the technicians brings up as large cranes brings a cone shaped top to the head of the now recognizable rocket and is handled by a crew to lock into place. 

Echoed from each of the console locations from the group. Various pre-flight checks and preparation is processed by those involved. As this process continued the leader of this group produced a key, and inserted it into the console and with a moment pause, turned the key as the lights died and the entire bunker was bathed in a red light. The haze crackle of speakers coming to life echoed throughout the bunker as the leader of this group pulled a microphone from the command center to address everyone involved in this project. 

“Soon we will start a new era! One that will be brought to existence by thunderous roar and forceful ignition. Even now as we continue this great work our brothers and sisters ready themselves for the next stages all throughout! Take pride! For our work is at hand!”

Thunderous applause echoes through the bunker and silo as a excited and fiery energy runs through all those working on bringing this ancient weapon of war to life. 

The scene shifts from dim interior to bright exterior and you are momentarily blinded.

You smell sand, and blood, and fresh air. Bouncing down the remains of a road a small caravan of Mutants and Lepers tune into a radio signal, the only source of information and entertainment on these trips.

“This is DJ Steelhand handling a special request. You're now listening to ‘Come with Me Now.’ by the Congos, This ones for you my loyal fans.” ~

The desert awaited them, a canvas painted with coarse yellow-white salt interupted by red claw-like mountains.

The expedition, now a caravan only 200 strong, ventured northward, their shadows elongating across the sand as the sun began its descent. Between the storm and the events of their landing in Salt Town, the had already lost fifty of their number. Among them, warriors, mages, diplomats, and scholars alike bore the weight of the journey, their eyes set on the horizon, where danger and discovery was long overdue.

The desert did not welcome them; it tested them. Sandstorms rose with a fury, obscuring the sun and turning day into a grotesque twilight. Canyons yawned like the maws of giants, threatening to consume any who dared their depths. Mirages taunted them, visions of salvation that vanished upon approach. And yet, amidst these trials, a more sinister feeling took root—the unnerving sensation of unseen eyes tracking their every move, leaving behind notes that whispered of an omnipresent watcher somewhere in the pale mist that seemed to coat every inch of the Ivory Wastes. 

Guided by the elusive trail of lizardkin nomads, phantoms that seemed to glide through the desert's heartache with ease, the expedition pressed on. Then, one fateful night, the tranquility of their journey was shattered by the sight of a distant fire, painting the horizon in strokes of dread. The echoes of battle, carried on the wind, reached their ears, a symphony of steel and sorrow. The nomads, their ghostly guides, had been ambushed.

There were calls for shoring up the expeditions own defenses, in prepartion of possible attack on their camp. But admist the clamor was a second call, as the Dreamwalkers felt the tug of the Soulforge.

​To the defense they were called. ~